Читать книгу The Doctor's Perfect Match - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 11

“I feel bad about putting you to this expense, J.C.”

Pushing through the gate in the tall privet hedge surrounding Edith’s backyard, J.C. shot Marci a disgruntled look over his shoulder as she trailed along behind him. “We’ve been over this a dozen times. After seven years of nonstop work and school, you deserve a vacation to celebrate your graduation. Since you won’t stay with Heather and me, this is a good alternative.”

“I can’t stay with you. You’re newlyweds. But this doesn’t feel right, either.” Marci followed her brother down a flagstone path through the well-tended yard. Considering the high prices on the island, her big brother was probably spending a fortune on the month’s rent for the little outbuilding that Chester had turned into a guest cottage.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, J.C. stopped, set Marci’s bags on a wooden bench and took her shoulders in a firm grasp. She had to tip her head back to look up into his dark eyes. “It’s a gift, okay? All those years you worked long hours at the diner to support yourself while going to school, you wouldn’t take a dime of help. None of the checks I sent you were ever cashed. I want to do this.”

“I appreciate the gesture, J.C. And I’m grateful.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But I don’t need my own cottage. The youth hostel would be fine. This is too expensive.”

His intent gaze locked on hers. “You’re worth every penny.”

That was the real problem, and they both knew it. While Marci’s self-image had improved over the years, deep inside she still felt unworthy of such generosity and kindness.

When she didn’t respond, J.C. shook his head. “I’ve never understood why you have such a hard time valuing yourself.”

And he never would, not if she had anything to say about it, Marci vowed. With his law-enforcement background, he could have discovered the truth long ago. But when she’d dropped out of school at nineteen and hit the road, promising to stay in touch if he gave her space, he’d kept his word.

Five years later, when she told him she’d come home if he’d leave her past alone, he’d agreed. And he’d never reneged on that promise. Never used his resources as a police detective to invade her privacy. That’s why she loved him—for his honor and integrity and unconditional love. He was the only person in her whole life she’d been able to count on, no matter what. The only person who had believed in her, who trusted in her basic goodness. She could never jeopardize his opinion of her by telling him the truth.

It wasn’t worth the risk.

Hugging herself tighter, she shrugged. “I just think you have better uses for your money.”

He continued to study her for a few moments, then released her shoulders and picked up her bags again. “If it makes you feel any better, Edith gave me a great deal. A bonus for my long tenure, as she put it. Most people only take island cottages for a week or two. I rented for a whole year—even during the quiet season, when she’s normally closed. According to her, I was a bonanza.” He grinned at her over his shoulder. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that was a new one.”

As they approached the tiny clapboard cottage surrounded by budding hydrangea bushes, Marci stopped protesting. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. J.C. was determined to give her a month of fun, and obsessing over the cost would ruin the gift for both of them. For once in her life, she needed go with the flow.

Besides, J.C. had probably already paid the bill.

Setting the bags by the door, J.C. turned the knob, grinned and motioned her inside. “You’re going to love this.”

Easing past him, Marci stepped over the threshold—and froze. “Wow!”

J.C.’s grin broadened as he nudged her farther in with his shoulder and snagged her bags. “That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”

He edged around her as she took in the space she would call home for the next month. Though the structure was small, the vaulted ceiling and white walls gave it an unexpected feeling of spaciousness, and the blue-and-yellow color scheme created a cheery mood.

The compact unit was well-equipped, too, Marci noted. A queen-size bed stood in the far corner, while closer to the door a small couch upholstered in hydrangea-print fabric and an old chest that served as a coffee table formed a sitting area. To the right of the front door a wooden café-sized table for two was tucked beside a window in a tiny kitchenette.

The whole place looked like a display in a designer showroom.

In other words, it was a far cry from her tiny, decrepit apartment in Chicago, with its chipped avocado fixtures, burn-damaged Formica countertops and stained linoleum. The same apartment she’d be returning to in a month, when this magical sojourn was over.

“Did you notice the pumpkin bread?”

J.C.’s question distracted her from that depressing thought.

Looking in the direction he indicated, she noted the plastic-wrap-covered plate on the café table.

“Edith left some for me, too, my first day here. And trust me, there will be more. She’ll take good care of you.”

Marci shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I can take care of myself.”

Shaking his head, J.C. pulled her into a bear hug. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Love me.” The words came out muffled against his shirt as she hugged him back.

“Always.”

Giving her one more squeeze, he stepped back. “Don’t forget that Heather and I are taking you to dinner tomorrow.” He held up his hand as she started to protest. “No arguments. You’ve been outvoted.” A yawn caught him off guard, and he grinned. “The jet lag is catching up with me.”

“Go home. You guys must be dead on your feet after flying all day. I need to settle in anyway.”

“Okay. Want to join us for church tomorrow?”

She folded her arms across her chest and arched an eyebrow.

“Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying. We’ll see you later, then. Sleep well.”

As he exited and shut the door, Marci once more surveyed her new digs. Though she still felt guilty about the expense, she couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. Maybe all this would disappear in a month, as Cinderella’s coach had vanished at the stroke of midnight. But in the meantime, she felt like a princess. The only thing missing was the handsome prince.

An image of Christopher Morgan suddenly flashed through her mind. He certainly fit that description, she conceded. Tall. Handsome. Confident. Charming.

Looks and manners could be deceiving though. A practiced rake could hide a callous, selfish heart until he got what he wanted. And princes could turn out to be scoundrels—leaving broken hearts, shattered dreams and wrenching regrets in their wake.

Her instincts told her Christopher wasn’t like that. But those same instincts had led her astray once.

And no way did she intend to trust them a second time.

Three days after the honeymooners returned—and two days into her vacation—Marci kept the promise she’d made to Henry two weeks before. After a morning spent soaking up rays on the beach, she’d headed for ’Sconset. True to his word, the older man had given her a tour of the area and invited her back to his home for refreshments.

“That was great banana-nut bread, Henry.”

He topped off Marci’s coffee mug as they sat on his back porch. “Glad you liked it.”

“The tour was fabulous, too. I can’t believe they actually moved Sankaty Light.”

“Yep. It was quite a feat. Made the national news, even. Cost a bundle of money, but that was the only way to save it from tumbling into the sea, what with all the erosion over there. Moved it inch by inch. Slow and steady.”

“Slow and steady is a good thing. With lighthouses—and life.” Marci took a sip of her coffee as she gazed at the sea, separated from Henry’s backyard by only a white picket fence and a stretch of beach.

“I expect that’s true, most of the time. I know my Marjorie felt that way about her garden. She had the patience of Job with all these plants.” Henry gestured toward the curving, overgrown flower beds that hugged much of the picket fence and porch, leaving only a small bit of lush green grass in the center and back of the yard.

“She tucked them into the ground, nurtured them, gave them time to flourish. Started most everything from seeds and cuttings. I often told her it would be a whole lot faster to buy established plants, but she claimed things grew better if they had a stable home from the beginning.”

A sudden film of moisture clouded her vision, and Marci blinked to clear it away. “Your wife was a wise woman.” Sensing Henry’s scrutiny, she shifted in her seat. She’d already learned that the older man was an astute observer; she didn’t want him delving into her life. “Did she spend a lot of time in her garden?”

“Practically lived out here in the summer. Not that you’d know it now.” He inspected the weed-choked beds and sighed. “I tried to keep up with things for the first few years after she died, not that I was ever much of a gardener. But arthritis finally did me in. Bending isn’t as easy as it used to be. Makes me sad, how much it’s deteriorated.”

“How long has your wife been gone?”

“An eternity.” He drew in a slow breath, then let it out. “Feels that long, anyway, after more than half a century of marriage. But to be exact, ten years and two months.”

It was nice to know some relationships lasted, Marci reflected with a pang as she studied the garden in which Marjorie Calhoun had invested so much labor and love. Despite the neglect, hints of its former beauty remained. Here and there, hardy flowers poked through the rampant weeds. Although out-of-control ivy was attempting to choke a circle of hydrangeas in one corner, the bushes were sporting buds. And a climbing rose in desperate need of pruning competed for fence space with a tangle of morning-glory vines behind an oversized birdbath.

“What was over there, Henry?” Marci indicated the hydrangeas, which rimmed a spot bare except for some low-growing foliage she assumed was weeds.

“Used to be a gazebo. I built it for Marjorie years ago. She loved to sit out there with a glass of lemonade after she worked in the garden and enjoy the fruits of her labors. Lost it in a storm winter before last.”

Marci rubbed a finger over the peeling white paint on the arm of her wicker rocker and mulled over all Henry had told her during their sightseeing outing. About Nantucket—and his life. He hadn’t dwelt on his problems, focusing instead on all the good things he’d experienced in his eighty-five years.

But she’d learned about the bad, too, through offhand comments or in response to questions she’d asked. Henry had watched friends die in battle. Nursed his wife through a cancer scare. And now he struggled to maintain the life he loved as his vigor and strength ebbed and the cost of living on the island soared.

Long life, she supposed, was both a blessing and a curse.

As if he’d read her mind, Henry looked over at her, the afternoon sunlight highlighting the crevices on his face. “I’ll tell you something, Marci. Growing old isn’t for sissies.”

Her throat constricted, and she leaned over to place a hand on his gnarled fingers. “Your body may be old, but your spirit is young. And I suspect it always will be.”

He patted her hand. “Thank you, my dear.”

Looking the garden over again, she set her empty mug aside and rose as an idea began to take shape in her mind. “Can you distinguish between the weeds and flowers, Henry?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t we clean this place up? You can point out the weeds until I learn which is which, and I can pull them up.”

“But I didn’t invite you here today to work.”

She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve worked my whole life. I can’t just lie around on a beach every day for the next month. I’ll go stir-crazy. I need to do something productive, too. This would be a challenge. And it would be fun.” She scanned the garden again. “I bet we could whip this place into shape in no time.”

“You might not think it’s so much fun after you start getting blisters on your hands.” He gave her a skeptical look. “Besides, gardening is hard work. It takes a lot of strength. Lifting, digging, pulling. You’re just a little thing.”

A wry smile lifted her lips. “Henry, I’ve spent half my life juggling heavy trays of dishes and glasses. I’ve moved tables, hauled and stacked chairs, and run up and down stairs balancing plates of food. At Ronnie’s Diner, I’m known as the Bionic Blonde. Trust me, being a waitress is a tough job. I’m a whole lot stronger than I look.”

“Well, I sure would like to see this place the way it used to be. And I know Marjorie would be pleased.”

“Then it’s decided. Heather and J.C. said I could use their car every afternoon, so I can bike to a beach and play in the sand in the morning, then head out here and play in the dirt after lunch. Are you game to show me the ropes?”

A slow grin creased his face, and he hauled himself out of his chair to stand beside her. “Let’s do it.”

Christopher wheeled his bike behind his cottage, glanced toward Henry’s backyard—and came to an abrupt halt. He had only a partial view of the woman on her hands and knees between two hydrangea bushes, but he’d recognize that blond hair anywhere.

What in the world was Marci Clay doing in Henry’s garden?

As she began to tug on something out of his line of sight, Henry’s voice rang across the yards. “Hey, Christopher! Look what we’re doing!”

Marci lost her grip and fell back with a plop. A second later she twisted toward him with a startled expression.

“Hi, Henry. Hello, Marci.”

Scrambling to her feet, she wiped her hands on her jeans.

“We’re cleaning out the garden,” Henry told him, brandishing a shovel as he gestured toward a large pile of wilting weeds and ivy.

Setting his mail on the railing around his tiny back porch, Christopher strolled over to the picket fence that separated the yards and surveyed Henry’s garden. In the far corner, plants had emerged from the cacophony of weeds. He’d never been much of a gardener, but his mother had enjoyed the hobby and he’d learned a few things from her. Enough to recognize the peony buds and coral bells. The other plants Marci had unearthed were a mystery to him.

“Looks like you’ve made a good start.” He turned his attention to Marci, who’d kept her distance. Her jeans were grimy, her fingernails caked with mud. Sweat had wiped her face clean of makeup. One of her cheeks sported a long streak of dirt.

She looked adorable.

Ignoring the quickening of his pulse, Christopher summoned up what he hoped passed for a casual smile. “I see Henry put you to work.”

“I volunteered.”

“She’s a hard worker, too.” Henry rested the shovel against the fence. “Why are you home so early?”

Christopher checked his watch. “It’s almost six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty!” Shock rippled across Marci’s face. “Henry, I’ve got to go. I told Edith and Chester I’d have dinner with them tonight. At seven.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans again and dashed for the porch. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Are you still sure about doing this, Marci?”

“Yes.” She grabbed her purse and rummaged through it. “I never leave a job unfinished.” Snagging her keys, she sent Christopher a quick glance, tucked her hair behind her ear and looked away.

Why was she nervous around him? He didn’t think it had anything to do with their rough start. Her present behavior bore no resemblance to her cold, aloof response when he’d insulted her in the restaurant. Today she reminded him of the island deer that bolted when anyone got too close.

For more than two years, he’d gone out of his way to discourage any woman who tried to cozy up to him. And a lot of them had. But Marci was at the opposite end of the spectrum. She was sending clear no-trespassing signals.

He should be grateful, Christopher told himself. This way he wouldn’t have to worry about fending off unwanted attention.

Except he wasn’t.

When the silence lengthened, Henry shot Christopher a pointed look. “Maybe you could walk Marci to her car.”

“Oh, no, that’s all right, Henry.” Marci dropped her keys. Bent to pick them up. When she rose, her cheeks were flushed. “I’m right in front. He doesn’t need to bother.” Before either man could respond, she jogged toward the gate. “See you tomorrow, Henry.”

Less than thirty seconds later, an engine started. Christopher heard the crunch of car tires on the oyster-shell lane and listened as the sound gradually receded into the distance.

When silence descended, he regarded Henry, gesturing toward the garden. “How did all this start?”

His neighbor scratched his head. “Beats me. One minute we were talking about Marjorie, and the next thing I knew Marci was pulling weeds. She’s strong, too, just like she told me. Claims it comes from all those years of waitressing.”

“Marci was a waitress?”

“Yep. That’s how she put herself through school. You’ve got to admire her spunk.”

“What else did she tell you?” Though Christopher did his best to keep his question nonchalant, a twinkle appeared in Henry’s eyes.

“Mostly we talked about flowers. But I expect we’ll get into a lot of other things as we work on the garden. Maybe you could stop by one afternoon and join us for lemonade.”

Not a good idea, Christopher decided. Contact could lead to connection, and he wasn’t in the market for a romantic relationship—even if the woman was willing. And Marci obviously wasn’t.

Besides, he couldn’t erase the image of her tears that first night in the restaurant. Or the defeated look in her eyes. Or the dejected slump of her shoulders as she’d walked home. All of which told him she had issues.

He needed to keep his distance.

“She makes you nervous, doesn’t she?”

At Henry’s comment, Christopher frowned. The last thing he needed right now was an armchair psychologist analyzing him in his backyard.

Ignoring Henry’s remark, Christopher scanned the sky as a gust of wind whipped past. “Looks like a storm might be brewing.”

His neighbor stacked his hands on top of the handle of his shovel and squinted at Christopher appraisingly. “Yep. I’d say there could be some unsettled weather ahead.”

Disregarding the double meaning, Christopher motioned toward his porch. “I think I’ll rescue my mail and head inside.”

Henry grinned. “Dashing for cover, hmm? Good luck.” With a wave, he ambled back to his hydrangeas.